


All This Became History

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Competency, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-10-14 13:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: A collection of John Wick ficlets, written for specific prompts. Tags will be updated as necessary.For ease of navigation, chapter titles will be in the format of [Pairing - Prompt/Kink - Rating].Chapter notes will contain warnings and any other relevant information.





	1. Viggo/Avi - Overheard masturbation - E

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Ann Sexton's _The Touch_.
> 
> (Apologies to anyone who got multiple notifications; I didn't realise that the chapters hadn't all posted at the same time!)

Avi checks every single stall before he locks himself into the one at the very end of the bathroom, the one farthest from the door. He knows this is a colosally dumb thing to do but there isn’t much else he _can_ do – it’s either this or spend the rest of the night holding something in front of his crotch and trying to hide his raging hard-on. 

He gets his cock out quickly, gasping a little already as he pushes his underwear out of the way. Jesus, he’s harder than he’d even realised; he barely brushes his fingers over himself and he’s already struggling to keep quiet. Avi licks his palm and wraps his hand around his cock and leans against the cubicle wall.

Fucking Viggo, he thinks, as he starts to stroke. Viggo had been at it all goddamn day, with the heated looks and the blatant staring; the leaning and the looming and all those deep drags from cigarettes that were practically in fucking slow motion. It was conscious and calculated – a deliberate escalation – and really, that was Viggo through and through. 

Avi’s grip tightens when he remembers the look in Viggo’s eyes earlier, when he’d asked Avi for a light. The cigarette was already in his mouth, the distinctive gold filter of the brand only he smoked somehow making his lips even more distracting, more inviting, and Avi had to work hard to keep his face from betraying him as he lifted the lighter to Viggo’s mouth. And when the flame flickered to life, that flare of orange light was nothing compared to the heat in Viggo’s eyes as he wrapped his fingers around Avi’s wrist to keep it steady.

He thinks about those eyes again now, and about that mouth. Imagines those lips against his neck, stubble scratching at his throat, or – no, Avi thinks, not at his throat. He closes his own eyes as he speeds up his hand and the scene in his mind changes; now Viggo’s kneeling between his legs, and that stubble is dragging over thighs, and those lips are closing over his bare, hard cock, and Avi squeezes tighter, strokes faster as he bites back a groan.

He knows he won’t last long, not when he’s this hard already, but that’s fine, he thinks a little desperately, that’s totally fine, that’s – 

“Christ,” he gasps, thumbing the head as he pictures Viggo doing it to him instead. Those rough, calloused fingers, curled around him and jacking him off with the same brutal strength that broke bones and drew blood. This is fine, he thinks again, coming embarrassingly fast is totally fine, he has to get back to the meeting anyway, Viggo’s waiting and –

“Fuck,” he moans, getting closer, thrusting a little into his own fist. He remembers the edge of roughness in Viggo’s voice just a few minutes ago, when he’d asked Avi whether he was feeling all right. Asked right there, in the middle of the fucking meeting that Avi spent weeks putting together, right there with the potential supplier sitting at the table with them and a dozen underlings looming at their backs. 

“You look a little flushed,” he’d said, taking a puff from his cigarette and flicking ash onto the floor, casual as anything. 

“I might be coming down with something, yeah,” Avi managed to say. “I’m sorry, can I just –” He jerked his head towards the door.

“Of course,” Viggo replied. “We wouldn’t want to you spill at the table.”

Avi froze. “Spill?” he repeated.

“Ah,” Viggo said. “My English… Kirill, what’s the word –?”

“Vomit,” Kirill supplied, stony-faced as ever. 

“Да.” VIggo gestured to the door. “We’ll wait.”

And so Avi went, and now he’s so close he’s shaking, eyes screwed shut and fist flying over his leaking cock and he’s trying to be quiet, trying to be careful not to ruin his suit and embarrass not just himself but Viggo, too – 

And then he hears the bathroom door swing open. 

Heavy footsteps echo against the tiles and Avi goes still so suddenly his whole body flinches. He listens as the footsteps get closer and closer and a tendril of smoke drifts into the stall as whoever it is smokes a cigarette. They stop at the sink in front of Avi’s stall and turn on the faucet, but the sound of the water doesn’t change – they’re not washing their hands or splashing their face or doing anything other than standing there and smoking with the water running. And Avi can’t be sure it’s Viggo, can’t know unless he opens the door, but just the _thought_ of it, that Viggo knew exactly what he was doing and had come in to listen to him doing it –

“God,” Avi whispers. His grip tightens and he strokes even faster, precome adding a slickness that makes him bite his lip, it feels so fucking good. For some reason the smell of cigarette smoke makes him even harder and Viggo’s silence – if it even _is_ Viggo – makes him want to make more noise. And he can’t, he knows he can’t, but if it is Viggo out there, maybe picturing what Avi’s doing to himself, maybe thinking about what it would be like if he walked into the stall himself and took over –

Avi moans again, as quietly as he can, can’t help himself now, can’t stop. Viggo shoving him against the wall, maybe, one hand joining his around his cock and the other one curled around his hip and holding him still. A cigarette still dangling from his lips as he leans in, the threat of the burning end almost brushing his face not nearly as worrying as the possibility that Viggo might stop, might step away and leave him unfinished and wanting and desperately, painfully hard.

“Oh, god, fuck, _fuck_,” Avi pants, not knowing if he can be heard over the water and too far gone to really care. He’s thinking about Viggo’s lips and hands, his fingers and tongue, and holy _shit_, Avi thinks, moaning again, Viggo’s _tongue_ – licking at his throat, pushing into his mouth, whispering filth in Russian against his skin as his hands keep mercilessly stroking –

Avi comes with a choked gasp, only just managing not to cry out. And it’s only when he’s starting to get his breath back that he notices how quiet it is, that the faucet’s been turned off and the only sound he can hear is his own laboured breathing. But smoke continues to drift into the stall, the blue-grey haze making his eyes water as he cleans himself up. Someone’s still out there. Someone’s still listening; someone had been listening all along. 

He jumps a little when he hears footsteps again. They come right toward him and stop in front of the stall, the tips of a pair of shoes just visible under the door. Shiny and black, no distinguishing features – they could be anyone’s. Avi stares at them and has no idea what to do – open the door, say something, wait him out. But then the shoes disappear as whoever it is steps back, and Avi listens as the footsteps fade away again, as the bathroom door closes behind them.

“Jesus,” he breathes. He runs a hand through his hair and checks that his suit still looks okay – no stains, no damp patches. Okay, he thinks, and unlocks the stall door. Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect. He can go back to the meeting, he can do his thing and push the deal through and as long as his work’s not affected he doesn’t even have to acknowledge what Viggo’s doing to him –

But Avi knows that’s a lie as soon as he sees what’s been left on the sink, the sink directly opposite the stall he’d been in. Something that had been left there on purpose, specifically for him to find.

The end of a cigarette, stubbed out against the mirror. A cigarette with a very distinctive, gold filter. 

“Shit,” Avi says. He is so fucking screwed. 


	2. Viggo/Avi - Blowjobs - E

It took longer than he’d expected—more than a month of dedicated, near-daily practice—but Viggo got there eventually. Some might have said it was a lot of work and a long time to wait for such a seemingly trivial reward, but Viggo is a patient man when he needs to be and a proud man always. Once he decides on a course of action he’ll see it through to the very end. 

And the end of this particular course is Avi. 

Avi, who is at this moment struggling to keep still as Viggo slowly runs his tongue along the length of his cock, licking and tasting and avoiding every spot he knows Avi wants him to touch. He’s been avoiding them, in fact, for at least half an hour now. Truth be told, this has been one of his favorite discoveries during the entire endeavor—the ability to draw things out like this, to such exquisite, excruciating lengths. Lengths he would never have achieved if he hadn’t learned how to do this, if he’d just kept doing what he usually did and went straight to fucking. And the other things he’d learned—about how much Avi could take and how he looked when taking it, the sounds Avi made when he got desperate enough to beg—they were certainly no small rewards either, in and of themselves. 

Still, Viggo has a specific goal in mind and nothing else will do. He won’t be satisfied until victory is absolutely, indisputably his.

Viggo mouths at a pulsing vein and smiles when he hears Avi swear.

“Viggo,” Avi pants, voice strained and rough. “For fuck’s sake, would you just—” 

Abrupt silence follows when Viggo sucks lightly on the head of his cock. Avi bucks hard but Viggo presses his hips against the bed and holds him down, fingers digging in so deeply that he knows there will be bruises there tomorrow. Good, Viggo thinks, and presses down even harder. Let him have the reminder. Let him remember his defeat every time he sees the marks. 

“Ah, fuck,” Avi whispers. His eyes shut tight but if anything he pushes up into Viggo’s hands, pursuing the pain. Just as Viggo had known he would.

Viggo keeps sucking, just at the tip and only just hard enough that Avi can’t quite get to where he wants to be. Not light enough to coast along a wave of pleasure; not hard enough to bring him release. Instead Viggo keeps him teetering on a knife’s edge, neither here nor there, unable to find a balance, not knowing when or if Viggo will finally give him what he needs. And the longer it goes on, the more Avi will lose control—and the more Viggo will enjoy his victory. 

He lets Avi push in a little deeper and is rewarded with a half-formed plea for more. Ah, Viggo thinks. Excellent. Another step closer then, now that Avi can’t quite form words anymore.

Viggo starts moving up and down the length of him, head bobbing as he takes in a little more each time. For several long minutes he simply enjoys the physicality of it, the sensations he’ll never admit he started to crave once he’d gotten good enough to know what to look for: the weight of Avi’s cock on his tongue, the heat and texture of him against his lips, the taste of his skin and precome. The sound of Avi’s little hitching breaths as he fights to retain some semblance of control, the sight of Avi’s hands fisting the sheets as that control swiftly unravels. 

Viggo keeps it all up until Avi’s cock is slick and wet, until Avi is writhing beneath his mouth and struggling against his hands, until Avi’s moans become so desperate that he sounds like he’s in pain. And that’s when Viggo goes in for the kill, when he brings out the big gun that he’d been working towards using for weeks. 

He relaxes his throat and swallows Avi down, taking him all the way in. 

The sound he gets is better than anything Viggo could have imagined—shocked and strangled, like something ripped from a place so deep that only Viggo could reach it, that only Viggo could drag out of him.

It’s increasingly difficult to hold Avi down but Viggo manages to do it. He starts moving his head again, slowly, carefully—he’s quick to learn but this is a new skill and he won’t risk failure, not when he’s so close to achieving his goal. But Avi makes another strained noise and when Viggo glances up he sees that Avi is staring right at him, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with such disbelief and pure, burning lust that Viggo can’t help it—he moans himself, Avi’s cock still in his mouth and deep in his throat, and Avi—

“_OhJesusfuck_,” he cries out, eyes screwing shut and head tossing from side to side. “Vigg—I—fu—_Chri_—plea—you—_Vig_—”

And Viggo lifts his head, Avi’s cock slipping out of his mouth as he straightens up and smiles.

“English, Avi,” he says, the hoarseness of his voice not making him sound any less triumphant. “_Please_.”


	3. Kirill/Charon - Hurt/Comfort after a terrible day - T

The door slams shut with more force than Kirill intended. It makes a teacup rattle loudly on its saucer, the sparsely decorated apartment making the bang of the door echo out like a shout in a cave. Or a gunshot in an empty warehouse, Kirill thinks grimly, and steps further into the room. 

Charon watches the contents of his cup slosh from side to side before he looks up. He doesn't seem particularly surprised, but then, he rarely ever does.

"Iosef?" he asks.

Kirill's jaw tightens. "Iosef," he confirms. Nothing more needs to be said, that one word enough to convey exactly the kind of day he'd had. One day that boy would do something that had consequences not even the Tarasov name could save him from.

He takes his jacket off and resists the urge to just throw it onto the couch. He and Charon are very particular men, if not in the exact same way, and even though Charon would only raise an eyebrow at the sight of him flinging his clothes around, Kirill knows it will do more than offend Charon's aesthetic sensibilities. Very little escapes those preternaturally calm eyes; any deviation from the norm will allow Charon to see –

Strong fingers close around his wrist as he steps past, stopping him from making his way to the bedroom. Kirill sighs.

"все в порядке," he says. Charon just watches him for a moment, saying nothing. Slowly, his grip loosens, fingers sliding over Kirill's knuckles as his hand falls away. And then some inexplicable impulse makes Kirill twist his own hand, catching Charon's fingers before they lose contact altogether. "It's fine," he repeats, in English, even though he knows Charon understood him the first time.

"Obviously," Charon replies drily, a trace of gentle amusement in his voice. He nods to the table, where Kirill belatedly realises a second cup and saucer are laid out, empty and waiting. "Tea?"

Kirill takes a breath, then nods. "Please."

There's a faint squeeze around his hand before Charon stands and makes his way to the kitchen, where he starts making a fresh pot. Kirill takes a moment to admire the lines of his body in his bespoke suit, the close tailoring emphasising the smooth grace of his movements. No gesture wasted, no unnecessary effort applied. Charon is as efficient with this as he is with everything – his work, his words, his –

"Sugar?" Charon offers, sounding considerably more amused than he did before. Kirill shakes his head, unable to stop the smile and equally unable to care. The only eyes that watch him here are Charon's; there is no danger in this place, except perhaps the kind that makes his breath catch, ever-so-slightly, when Charon turns and gifts him with a smile of his own.

"No one would believe me if I told them of your penchant for cliché," Kirill laments, stepping closer and accepting the offer regardless.

"What is cliché to one is poetry to another," Charon replies, his words soft and warm against Kirill's waiting mouth.

Arms slip around Kirill's waist as one kiss becomes two, three, four – until the numbers become meaningless and Kirill surrenders to the careful, and carefully measured, application of lips and tongue and teeth. Efficient as ever, Kirill thinks, a little dazed, when Charon pulls back and smiles again.

"You just fail to grasp the subtle nuances," Charon adds.

"I'm quick to grasp other things, though," Kirill says, and shifts his hips. Charon shakes his head but rewards him with another quick kiss all the same.

"Your tea will get cold," Charon points out.

"I didn't come here for tea," Kirill admits. "Or this," he adds quickly, but Charon shakes his head again, not requiring or expecting him to elaborate. Indeed, Kirill is certain that Charon prefers it this way. They both do. He closes his eyes when he feels Charon's hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt – offering the simple comfort of warm fingers against bare skin, not asking for anything more.

"I know why you come here," Charon says. Kirill opens his eyes again. "Do you know why I –"

Kirill leans back slightly, into the press of Charon's fingers against his back, and brushes his own fingertips against the side of Charon's neck, his throat, his collarbones. The touch is feather-light but it's enough to make Charon fall silent, the rest of his question rendered moot in the wake of Kirill's wordless answer.

"I know," Kirill says, just to emphasise the point.

Charon leans in and kisses him again, and this time, he doesn't stop until the tension in Kirill's back has melted away, the stress of the day seeming faint and faraway compared to the familiarity of the mouth moving against him, to the body supporting his weight as he leans closer, closer, closer still.

"Better?" Charon asks, when he finally breaks the kiss, leaning back and catching Kirill's eye.

"I said I was fine," Kirill replies automatically, and even he has to admit that he deserves it when Charon just laughs at him in response.


	4. Kirill/Charon - Discovering inner cockslut - E

It was only supposed to be a challenge met, a dare fulfilled. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Charon is not the kind of man who cares about the sort of posturing machismo that most of Kirill's colleagues display as a default. Not that Charon is soft, or any less capable of violence – indeed, he is one of the most dangerous men Kirill has ever met. But Kirill learned very quickly that Charon's true strength, the most lethal of his many skills, was less about the physical and more about the psychological instead. A skill that he employed, several days ago, when he somehow persuaded Kirill to try something he once believed he'd never do.

"Why are you so against it?" Charon asked. "Is it fear?"

"What is there to be afraid of?" Kirill scoffed. "I'm told it can be painful, but it can't be any worse than anything I've experienced in other situations."

For a long moment, Charon simply looked at him and said nothing. They both understood exactly what kind of situations Kirill meant, the scars that littered both their bodies telling stories they didn’t need to obscure with words spoken aloud. 

"I don't mean fear of physical damage," Charon said eventually. "I mean fear of damage of a deeper kind." His eyes narrowed a little but Kirill refused to look away. "Are you afraid, perhaps, that you might like it?"

"Why do you ask?" Kirill was intrigued; it was unlike Charon to be so blatant about such things. "Do you think you could make me change my mind?" He didn't expect a reply, much less a direct one, and thus was wholly caught off-guard when Charon's mouth stretched into a slow, sharp smile.

"I do," he said, soft, tempting and above all, confident. "But I understand if you don't wish to try." He paused, then added, "I wouldn't want you to think that I am… unsatisfied, with our current activities."

As always, the preciseness of his words and the lilt of his accent made heat curl in Kirill’s belly, made his fingers twitch with the need to touch. Kirill certainly wasn't unsatisfied, either. But there was a distinct edge of amusement in Charon's eyes, a kind of indulgent condescension that made Kirill bristle. His entire life has been full of risks taken, of dangers faced head-on. He was not afraid to try _anything_ – if that were the case, the two of them would not have begun this at all.

And so now Kirill lies, face-down on his own bed, Charon pressed against his back and both hands on Kirill's hips as he slowly guides himself in. It's not as painful as he expected, not after Charon's excruciatingly thorough preparation – a seemingly endless series of long, slick fingers and quiet, murmured words, building and building with such gradual intensity that Kirill lost all sense of time passing. There was only Charon's voice and Charon's steady hands, the slow stretch and the paradoxical feeling of being filled and yet, not filled enough. And then, later, not just fingers, not just hands – but soft wet flicks of tongue, too, and the scrape of newly-grown stubble. 

Kirill shudders now at the memory of it, of the shocking spike of lust that pierced right through him when he realised what Charon was doing. More than touching him, more than tasting him in a way no one ever had before – it was a claiming; a silent declaration that Kirill was his and his alone for the taking.

Kirill pants harshly into the pillow, hands balled into fists at either side of his head. Charon is moving so slowly, filling him up inch by inch, by the smallest, unbearable degrees. He doesn't know how Charon can stand it – Kirill may not have done this with a man before but he still knows what it feels like to fuck. That soft tight heat around his cock, the slick slide of wet skin, that primal urge to go deeper, harder, _faster_. He can only imagine how this must feel for Charon, how much tighter it must be, how much hotter. The thought makes him moan, so loud that the pillow barely muffles his desperation, and when Charon suddenly goes still Kirill is helpless to stop the word from escaping his throat.

"What was that?" Charon asks. He sounds only slightly breathless, but even that is enough to make Kirill's cock throb painfully. Charon losing control is a precious, rare thing, something that Kirill always craves, and now he wants other things he can’t even name – he just _wants_, with more blind, mindless intensity than anything he's ever wanted in his life.

"пожалуйста," Kirill whispers. He barely recognises his own voice, splintering in ways it never does and thick with things he cannot suppress.

One of the hands on his hips disappears and Kirill makes a small noise of protest. It lands, warm and heavy, against his shoulder, and then he feels Charon shift – above him and _inside_ him – and Kirill shuts his eyes tight, trying in vain to keep still.

"Please, what?" Charon asks, breathing the words directly into his ear.

His instinct is to fight back, to be contrary, to cling fiercely to whatever scrap of control he has left. But Kirill is nothing if not a practical man, even in the state he’s in now, and he hears the warning in Charon's voice as clearly as if he'd spoken the threat out loud.

Charon is demanding, not requesting, and if Kirill does not comply, then Charon will have no qualms about leaving him like this – empty and frustrated and horrifically, desperately unsatisfied.

"More," Kirill says, gasps, _begs_. "Please, Charon, I need – _more_."

Lips brush the nape of his neck, barely touching his skin, but Kirill shudders again as his greed starts to overwhelm him – he wants so much more of _everything_. More of Charon's mouth and tongue, more of his hands and fingers, and above all, more of his cock pushing deeper and deeper inside him, filling him up until he can take no more. 

Charon's hips start to move again and Kirill bites his lip, teeth breaking flesh and blood coating his tongue. But what should be mercy is anything but, because although Charon is moving there’s a terrifying patience in his controlled thrusts, in the calm rhythm of his breaths. 

This will not end any time soon. And nor, Kirill realises, does he want it to.


	5. Viggo/Avi - Covert touching - T

All things considered, he's not that badly hurt. The bullet went right through his upper arm, a nice clean wound with no bones hit or tendons severed and really, Avi's been through a lot worse. But Viggo's face went white as a sheet when he saw the blood dripping down his arm, shirtsleeve torn and soaked bright, bright red.

What happened after that is a little hazy, a blur of rapid gunfire and angry yelling in Russian. The next thing Avi is really aware of is being here – sitting on the couch in Viggo's living room, Viggo himself crouched in front of him and hands only slightly unsteady as he unbuttons Avi's shirt and pushes it out of the way.

The room is almost full, Kirill and Francis and their teams standing by the windows while Iosef and his cronies loiter near the door. They're talking amongst themselves but Avi isn’t fooled – more than a dozen pairs of eyes are watching them, and they're all thinking the same thing: lawyers don't get bullet wounds personally tended to by the mob bosses they work for, no matter how good at their jobs they may be. 

Avi glances over at Kirill, whose face, of course, betrays nothing. He's watching them too and there's something vaguely threatening about the look he's giving, but whether it's a warning for Avi or for everyone else, Avi has no idea. Then again, threatening is kind of Kirill's default expression so maybe it doesn't actually mean anyth–

"I'm going to kill him."

Viggo isn't joking. His voice is quiet and his eyes are dark with rage, and there's a weird shift in the air as everyone tries to pretend that Viggo isn't overreacting. Viggo doesn't seem to notice, fingers brushing over Avi's bare skin as he applies disinfectant and blots the blood away. His touches don't exactly linger but they're definitely not impersonal, either; there's something a little too deliberate about it, a little too careful. And there's a gentleness in his hands that's entirely missing from his voice when he orders Kirill to do something, his words spoken entirely in Russian.

"English, Viggo," Avi says without thinking. He freezes but Viggo just smiles a little and translates for him – like this is normal behaviour, like they're alone and not surrounded by people who'd just as soon shoot Avi in the head if they ever found out why Viggo's office door is always locked when Avi's in there with him.

"I told Kirill to prepare a team," Viggo says. "We'll do it tonight. I'll do it myself."

"You really don't have to –"

One of Viggo's hands drops from Avi's shoulder down to his hip, fingers curling in what's unmistakably a caress. Avi's shirt still is half-on and hiding Viggo's hand but Avi's heart rate doubles anyway, and he has to force himself not to move. But then Viggo's other hand comes up and settles against the back of his neck and yeah, okay, maybe Avi lost more blood than he realised because he's already leaning forward, staring at Viggo's mouth, and Viggo's not making any move to stop him –

"I'll take Francis with me," Kirill says.

Viggo pulls his hands away and resumes bandaging the bullet wound. It's not sudden, like he'd been caught doing something wrong, but smooth and casual, like it's exactly what he'd been intending to do all along. Still, Avi can see a certain stiffness in his movements now and knows that he wasn't the only one who'd been tempted to do something monumentally stupid.

"Very well," Viggo replies. "Get the rest of your team together and wait for me downstairs. I need to finish here first."

Kirill doesn't reply. He does, however, glance briefly at Avi. His face doesn't change but the message is clear enough – Viggo's skirting the edge of inappropriate as it is; the longer this goes on the more difficult it will be to get him to see sense.

Avi clears his throat.

"Actually," he starts, "maybe you should call the doctor." Viggo frowns, hands stilling against his shoulder. "I'm… not feeling great."

"He has lost quite a lot of blood," Kirill says. "He may need a transfusion."

Viggo's frown deepens. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" he demands. "Kirill, call Dr Medvedev. Tell him it's an emergency."

"Yes, sir." Kirill pauses. "And the hit?"

"Leave it for tomorrow. This takes precedence."

Kirill meets Avi's eyes again before he nods. "Of course, sir."

Viggo fusses with another piece of gauze, taping it more securely to Avi's arm despite the fact that Kirill's already on the phone to the doctor.

"You should not have kept this from me," he says. He doesn’t look at Avi as he speaks, gaze focused on the blood-soaked strip of white instead. "Your suffering is unacceptable."

His fingers skim the edge of the bandage and Avi can’t help it; he shivers a little. It's got nothing to do with being cold but Viggo immediately takes his own jacket off anyway, standing up and offering it without being asked. And in the brief moment between Viggo leaning down to drape it over his shoulders and straightening up again, when Avi is completely hidden from view, Avi does another stupid thing and reaches out, pressing the palm of his hand against Viggo's chest.

"So is yours," he says, so quietly that only Viggo can hear him. "This isn’t worth starting a war."

Viggo searches his eyes for a moment. 

"We still have to retaliate," he says, when he pulls back. His voice is at a normal volume and everyone turns at the sound of it. "Can you suggest an alternative to killing him?"

Avi thinks of the files in his office, of the backups in the church and in other stashes so secret that even Viggo doesn't know about them. Reams and reams of invaluable information, painstakingly gathered over his years and years of service – enough blackmail material to bring the entire city to its knees. Avi might not be Russian but he's in Viggo's inner circle for a reason, and not just the one the two of them never talk about.

He smiles, and smiles all the wider when he sees the flare of heat in Viggo's eyes.

"Oh, I wouldn’t worry," Avi says, leaning back against the couch and wrapping Viggo's jacket around himself. It smells like Viggo, like cigarettes and just-fired guns and expensive cologne, and he might as well play up the wounded victim routine while he still can. "I'm sure I'll come up with something."


	6. Viggo/Avi - Paperwork - E

Avi hears the door open and close but barely looks up from his desk. 

"Nearly done," he says, too distracted to wonder why Viggo hadn't just waited for him in his own office like he usually did. There’s no reply but Avi doesn't look up again, focused on the screen and fingers flying as he types. "Just gotta file this affidavit before Judge Barlowe goes on vacation this afternoon." There's no response to that either and Avi keeps on typing; if it was something urgent Viggo would have said so by now.

It’s not until he realises that Viggo’s stayed just outside his field of vision, not sitting down on the other side of the desk or wandering over to the small couch by the wall, that Avi finally glances over.

"Is something wrong,” he starts to say, only for the question to die unfinished in his throat. “Holy _fuck_ –"

His fingers go still against the keyboard and in the sudden silence, the sight of Viggo slowly pumping his own cock is somehow even more shocking, even more surreal.

Viggo's shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, hanging open and exposing the tattoos on his chest. Despite this thing going on for months now, Avi doesn't actually get to see them all that often and whenever he does, his reaction is always the same – his throat goes dry and his brain immediately relocates to his pants.

"Have you finished your paperwork yet?"

Viggo's voice is quiet and noticeably rough around the edges. It's exactly the way he sounds when he's just about ready to give Avi what he wants – when his cock is _just_ on the verge of pushing in, or when his fingers tighten right before they start to stroke, or when his mouth finally descends and his tongue licks over Avi's –

"I asked you a question, Avi."

"I – uh – what?"

Avi somehow manages to tear his eyes away from Viggo’s hand and looks up into his face instead. But the look in Viggo’s eyes and the trace of a smile on his mouth don't do a damn thing to help Avi's composure, and when Viggo slowly licks his bottom lip Avi promptly forgets why he's trying to be composed in the first place. It doesn't seem to matter anymore, not when his hands could be on Viggo's skin, his fingers in Viggo's hair, when he could be tasting the tattoos he's so rarely allowed to see –

"The paperwork, Avi." 

Viggo leans back against the wall, tilting his hips up as he continues to stroke himself. His movements are languid and easy, no rush and absolutely no shame and what the _fuck_, Avi thinks, staring blankly, what the fuck is Viggo even talking about, what paperwork could possibly be more important than the fact that Avi doesn't have his mouth on Viggo's cock right the fuck now?

He's already half-standing when Viggo stops him with nothing more than a hard stare.

"File the affidavit," Viggo says. "And make sure it's perfect."

"Fuck, Viggo, come on –"

"What do I pay you for, Avi?" Viggo raises an eyebrow. "What do you _want_ me to pay you for?"

And Avi suddenly realises, too late, that this is a test.

He takes a seat again but doesn’t break eye contact, refusing to look away or back down.

"I'm a lawyer," Avi says eventually. "And a damn good one, too. The best you’ll ever have."

His voice is surprisingly even; surprising because it’s not just lust that’s threatening to overwhelm him now – it’s anger, too. He's proven his loyalty a hundred times over; he's demonstrated his skills time and time again. Avi’s skin might not have a drop of ink on it but the scars he bears are proof enough. Gunshots, knife wounds, outright torture – he's taken them all and never once said a goddamn word and whatever complications this thing between them might create, Avi knows he doesn't deserve bullshit like this.

For some reason the anger seems to please Viggo, and his smile widens when he sees it.

"I don’t mean to offend you," he says. He licks his lips again, giving Avi a slow, thorough once-over. "I simply enjoy watching you work."

"Paperwork?" Avi asks. "You enjoy watching me do paperwork?"

Viggo stalks closer, rounding the desk and spinning Avi’s chair around until they’re face to face. Then he leans down, hands braced on the desk, and with his shirt still open and his cock still out, Avi is assaulted by the heat of Viggo’s skin, the smell of his arousal, by the sense of power – physical and otherwise – that rolls off him in waves.

"I enjoy watching you use your skills," Viggo corrects. He bends his head but stops when his lips are just out of reach. Avi swallows a groan of frustration. "As I know you enjoy watching me use mine."

Avi shakes his head. “I can’t believe you have a fetish for people doing paperwork,” he mutters, but doesn’t protest when Viggo turns his chair to face the monitor again. Viggo doesn't move away, though, just continues to stand close by – close enough that Avi can see him touching himself again, just out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not just any people,” Viggo says. His voice is warm and low in Avi’s ear. “Just lawyers. Just the damn good ones.” His lips graze Avi’s jaw. “Just the best one I’ll ever have.” 

For once, Avi has absolutely no idea what to say. He does, however, manage to start typing again, and Viggo’s breath hitches at the sound of his fingers tapping over the keyboard.

“If this is a test,” Viggo adds, “it’s simply one of self-control.”

“Yours or mine?” 

Viggo laughs, quiet and just a little bit breathless. “Why don’t we find out?”


	7. Viggo/Avi, Ryan O'Reily - Crossover - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a crossover with HBO's Oz.
> 
> While familiarity with Oz would be a bonus, all you really need to know is that 20+ years ago, Dean Winters (who played Avi in John Wick) also played a character named Ryan O'Reily in Oz.

“The resemblance is uncanny.”

Viggo leans closer to the monitor, staring as the man onscreen paces the confines of the small room he’s in. He’s silent now, occasionally glancing up at the security camera but mostly keeping his head down, apparently deep in thought. Still, Viggo can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he walks back and forth, over and over again, his movements twitchily agitated but not entirely uncontrolled. There's more to this man, Viggo is sure, than the charmingly roguish delinquent who'd tried to steal one of his cars. 

“You are sure you’re not related?” he asks again, gaze still fixed on the screen. 

"Positive." Avi joins him by the monitor and watches the video feed in silence for a moment. “His name’s O’Reily, right?” Viggo nods. "Well, I’m about as Irish as I am Russian. I have no idea who this guy is.” He frowns a little. “You’re right, though — he’s pretty much a dead ringer for what I looked like about twenty years ago. Or at least, what I’d look like if I’d spent a few years in prison instead of in law school.”

“An intriguing thought,” Viggo murmurs, and laughs a little when Avi gives him a faintly insulted glare. “What’s the matter?” he asks, turning and meeting Avi’s eyes. “Are you worried I might want to replace you with your rough trade doppelganger?” 

But Avi’s response is as immediate as it is absolutely, unshakably sure.

“No,” he answers. There's no trace of doubt in his voice at all and Viggo suppresses a smile, despite knowing Avi will see through him anyway. “He’s a punk, Viggo, and you’re old school. You’d get tired of his bullshit in less than half a day. Even if he is young and hot.”

Viggo raises an eyebrow.

“Perhaps I’m the one who ought to worry,” he remarks. “Are you thinking of replacing _me _with the ‘young and hot’ version of yourself?”

Avi shrugs. “Maybe not replace,” he deadpans. “But he looks pretty limber, don’t you think? He might be a fun distraction, at least for a little while.” 

“For you,” Viggo asks, only half-joking, “or for both of us?” 

Avi rolls his eyes.

"Are you really going to pretend that you didn't think about a threesome as soon as you saw his face?" 

"And are _you_ going to pretend that you didn't think about the exact same thing?" Viggo retorts. "But as enjoyable as the prospect may be, it is ultimately a moot point.” His voice goes quiet, quiet and serious, in a way it only ever does when he’s confronted with a genuine threat. “That is not a man to be trusted."

They both turn to look at the monitor again. O’Reily has stopped pacing now and is instead standing very still, staring directly into the security camera like he knows he’s being watched. There’s a calculating light in his eyes and a thoughtful expression on his face, but there's something else there, too — buried beneath the bravado, quietly simmering away. A sharp edge of something Viggo recognises, that makes O’Reily far more dangerous than his skinny frame and inconsequential rap sheet might otherwise suggest. 

An instinctive need to survive, no matter what the cost. 

“What should we do with him, then?” Avi asks. “We can’t keep down there forever.”

“Just do what you do best, Avi,” Viggo replies. “Find out more about who he is. And get me the leverage we need to bend him to our will.”

“You just said we couldn’t trust him,” Avi protests, but Viggo smiles suddenly, sensing an opportunity, and cuts him off with a kiss. Avi is sufficiently surprised that he stays silent even when Viggo pulls back again.

“We can’t trust him,” Viggo agrees, staring at Avi’s mouth as he licks his lips. “But a man like that has uses beyond the bedroom.” 

Avi sees where his gaze is caught and smiles a little himself. 

“Kirill’s keeping an eye on him, right?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, then.” Avi’s smile widens when Viggo takes the hint and steps closer, crowding him against the wall. 

“Well then, what?” Viggo asks, bending his head and brushing his mouth against Avi’s neck.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what use O’Reily would be in the bedroom,” Avi suggests, curling his hands around Viggo’s hips, “and I’ll show you why being young and hot is nothingcompared to experience and skill.” 

Viggo lifts his head. “I thought you were quite confident that you wouldn’t be replaced?”

“Oh, I am,” Avi replies. He smiles again, slowly, and tugs Viggo even closer. “But that doesn’t mean I’m above showing off.” 


	8. Viggo/Avi - Can't touch in public - T

It’s the little things that tend to set him off. 

Never the obvious moves, or the more blatant gestures - Viggo only ever breaks when Avi is far more subtle than that. A tilt of the head, a flick of a cigarette, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. That sort of thing. Over the course of several years - during meetings and operations, and formal dinners and private drinks; from first times to morning afters and now, finally, to this - Avi has catalogued what works and what doesn’t, and he’s compiled a go-to list of certain actions that he knows will never fail him. 

Some work almost instantaneously. Viggo’s gaze will zero in on him like a missile finding its target, everything else around them fading into the background and suddenly unimportant, if only for a little while. Avi is especially careful with those and deploys them only rarely; Viggo can be a disciplined man but he’s also an unpredictable one, and for all that Avi is confident of his place here now, he’d never risk Viggo’s reputation over what's essentially a trivial game.

But then again, Avi wouldn’t be here at all if he always played it safe. 

He pushes a cigarette between his lips and starts patting down his pockets for a lighter.

On the other side of the desk, Viggo’s hands go still mid-gesture. 

“Sir?” Francis asks uncertainly, when Viggo makes no move to continue. “Is there a problem with the blueprint?” 

“No,” is the immediate reply. “Kirill -”

“Yes, sir.” 

Kirill leans over the table and takes over without pause, ready and prepared and completely unsurprised. These days, he doesn’t even glance at Avi when this happens anymore - he just goes and does what he needs to do without being asked, like it’s just another one of his sworn duties to the Bratva now. Avi manages to keep a straight face but Viggo’s eyes narrow as he steps around the desk.

“You need - ?” Viggo asks, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a lighter. Solid gold and relatively plain, except for the dates Avi knows are engraved into its base.

“Yeah,” Avi says, around the cigarette still stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Thanks.” 

Viggo flicks the lighter to life and silently holds it out. But he keeps it just out of reach, the flame not quite close enough to meet the end of the cigarette, and Avi is forced to step forward and lean in. And then Viggo’s mouth curves into a tiny smile and just as Avi starts wondering why, Viggo pulls away, suddenly, before he can catch the light. Avi glances up but Viggo’s face shows only faint amusement, nothing more.

Avi steps closer and leans in again, and again Viggo leans back and pulls away. And so it goes, again and again and again, until Avi’s curiosity turns into annoyance and his annoyance turns into frustration and he unthinkingly grabs Viggo’s wrist. He holds it steady as he finally lights the cigarette and it’s only as he’s leaning back that he realises - there’s more to Viggo’s smile than just amusement, now.

It’s a smile of triumph, too. 

Avi takes a drag and tilts his head, silently conceding defeat. 

The smile twists into a smirk as Viggo returns to his place on the other side of the table. Kirill nods and cedes the meeting back to him, but before Viggo takes over again, he tosses the lighter to Avi.

“Keep it, for now,” he says. “In case you need it again.” 

Avi weighs it in his hands, the metal still warm from Viggo’s skin, and rubs his thumb over the base. He knows without looking exactly what’s been engraved there:

_1987, 1990, 2003._

“What if you need it?” Avi asks.

The year Viggo moved to the States, the year his son was born, and the year -

Viggo just shrugs. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” 

The year Avi started working for him permanently.

Avi drops the lighter into his pocket and suppresses a smile of his own. “No, sir,” he replies. “No, I’m not.”


End file.
